 | The poetical works of George Keate |  |
37
PROLOGUE, On opening of the new Theatre, at Southampton, 1766.
Spoken by the Manager.
As new-sprung Flow'rs rear up the tender head,
And to the parent Sun their foliage spread,
In us, just budding, the same action view,
Op'ning, we turn with Gratitude to You.
You are our Sun, You have the pow'r to raise ;
We feel your Comfort, and reflect your Praise.
By You protected, we may here take root,
Warm'd by Your smiles here too may boldly shoot;
And that we more may flourish ev'ry hour,
Cherish us often—with a Golden Show'r.
And to the parent Sun their foliage spread,
In us, just budding, the same action view,
Op'ning, we turn with Gratitude to You.
You are our Sun, You have the pow'r to raise ;
We feel your Comfort, and reflect your Praise.
By You protected, we may here take root,
Warm'd by Your smiles here too may boldly shoot;
38
Cherish us often—with a Golden Show'r.
But Metaphor apart, behold in Me
The Guardian of this Stage.—This magic Key
Unlocks the various scene, and brings to view,
Whate'er the pens of ablest Poets drew:
I shew the Living, summon up the Dead,
And bid them by mine Art before you tread;
Provoke your laughter, fire your breasts with glory,
Or ask your tears to grace some tragic story.—
As yet, you little know how great my store,
Of Kings and Queens I here have many a score;
Aye, and materials too for making more.—
Stories of ancient Times I also trade in,
Of Heroes, have a large assortment laid in,
And can at will take down as best may suit us,
A Cato, Falstaff, Mahomet, or Brutus.—
There
, is lock'd up my Light'ning—there
, my Thunder,
My Devils here —for those we must keep under.
Behind are Children ready to be strangled,
Couples just fit in love to be entangled,
Traitors that on the Rack ne'er think of pain,
Virgins oft ravish'd, that quite chaste remain,
Women, who tho' they're murder'd, still survive,
Nay what's more strange, by often dying, thrive;
Ghosts, that can eat and drink in Poison's spite,
And men who bear a stabbing ev'ry night.
The Guardian of this Stage.—This magic Key
Unlocks the various scene, and brings to view,
Whate'er the pens of ablest Poets drew:
I shew the Living, summon up the Dead,
And bid them by mine Art before you tread;
Provoke your laughter, fire your breasts with glory,
Or ask your tears to grace some tragic story.—
As yet, you little know how great my store,
Of Kings and Queens I here have many a score;
Aye, and materials too for making more.—
Stories of ancient Times I also trade in,
Of Heroes, have a large assortment laid in,
And can at will take down as best may suit us,
A Cato, Falstaff, Mahomet, or Brutus.—
39
My Devils here —for those we must keep under.
Behind are Children ready to be strangled,
Couples just fit in love to be entangled,
Traitors that on the Rack ne'er think of pain,
Virgins oft ravish'd, that quite chaste remain,
Women, who tho' they're murder'd, still survive,
Nay what's more strange, by often dying, thrive;
Ghosts, that can eat and drink in Poison's spite,
And men who bear a stabbing ev'ry night.
When Comedy's your taste, I can give birth
To Wit, to Satire, or good-humour'd Mirth:
I've griping Fathers,—old fantastic Mothers,—
Kind envious Sisters,—and designing Brothers;—
Sly Knaves, who e'en their bosom-friends would cozen—
With Beaux, Coquets, and Coxcombs by the dozen;
So that come when you will, you're always sure
Of seeing here, the World in miniature.
Whilst I, still zealous in the Drama's cause,
Cherish no greater wish than your Applause.
To Wit, to Satire, or good-humour'd Mirth:
I've griping Fathers,—old fantastic Mothers,—
Kind envious Sisters,—and designing Brothers;—
40
With Beaux, Coquets, and Coxcombs by the dozen;
So that come when you will, you're always sure
Of seeing here, the World in miniature.
Whilst I, still zealous in the Drama's cause,
Cherish no greater wish than your Applause.
| The poetical works of George Keate | |